Sweet Dreams
by ArgentNoelle
Summary: Even when Sebastian sleeps, he rarely dreams. [spoilers for chapter 147]


No matter his master's rejuvenation and bright fury, no matter the plans that have been talked about long into the night, mortals need rest, and so Lau offers them all a place to sleep. Beyond the walls of the small room he can hear Bard already beginning to snore, Maylene brushing her hair in slow, even strokes, Finny tossing and turning in his bed, and the young master, his heart slow, his breathing even. Safe. They are all as safe as they could be, here in Lau's domain. The giddiness Sebastian had felt earlier, upon knowing—finally!—what he, what they were all meant to do, when the young master had reclaimed his title and his pride, has mellowed into something odd and almost thoughtful.

There is no need, nor opportunity to wander, so he sits on the edge of the bed and waits for morning, noticing with some surprise a hesitant knock on the door; at his word one of Lau's girls peeks her head in shyly.

"Boss says you might want this," she says, holding out a long, thin pipe. "You're tired, yes?"

Sebastian makes a face both amused and bewildered, but says quickly, "there's no need…"

"It gives sweet dreams," the girl says, coaxingly. She puts it down on the small table beside his bed and glances at him with some curiosity before excusing herself.

Dreams. Ah, yes. That strange phenomenon that humans are so enamoured of. He's never had a natural dream, the way they do. But with such artificial stimuli he has had some dreams that he can remember; they give sleep an odd sense of reality in its lack of oblivion. Two out of the three dreams he'd had had over the years of his endless existence—in places and times and with masters so different from his own—appeared as a voice of thought in the nothingness, as though he were observing from afar his own mind planning. A strange thing, to be sure, for nothing has no mind, no interiority, it is only a reflection of its master. The third dream had been an aesthetically pleasing field of geometric shapes.

Sebastian stares down at the pipe beside his bed. Perhaps, after all, becoming preoccupied with such a diversion might be welcome.

He gets up, and changes unhurriedly into the nightclothes he has been provided before lying on the bed with some awkwardness. In the rooms nearby, the other servants have all descended into their own experiences of sleep, and his young master still rests. After a moment, it occurs to him that it is the style to get under the covers when one sleeps. He does so.

At last he reaches over to the pipe and breathes in the cloying poison smoke. For some time that is all that happens; he stares up at the ceiling and notices the whorls in the wooden beams, and—

.

.

"My friend, is something troubling you?"

Sebastian has been staring with some preoccupation at the polished wooden counter, and he looks around with some confusion at the voice. He is… where is he? The townhouse? And Agni is beside him, making gulab jamun.

"No, not at all," he says with an easy smile. For a moment he tries to remember why he is here and what he has been doing before this, but it seems unimportant; the details slip away like smoke from a candle-flame.

Cardamom, lemon juice, rose water, Agni's right hand of god picks them and mixes them deftly, while Sebastian watches with fascination. The aroma that rises from the work must be wonderful, for the smile on Agni's face is satisfied; he works with grace and precision.

I must figure out how to make this dish just the way Agni does, Sebastian thinks suddenly. If I didn't, and the recipe was lost, how could I call myself a butler?

He doesn't know why the thought distresses him the way it does. After all, there must be many satisfactory ways to make gulab jamun, and if he needs the recipe for some reason, he can always ask Agni to teach him. The khansama doesn't have a miserly nature, and he has never kept back any ingredient or process from the other butler. The honesty prompts honesty from Sebastian's end as well: he has tried, as well as he can, to reciprocate the same trust. Still, there is always a difference between the original and a piece however adequately copied; hardly noticeable and yet, apparently, so important.

When he had mentioned this to Agni one day, confounded by the limitations of his chemistry, Agni had only laughed. "That difference is the touch of the chef," he said. "And it is not something to be distressed by. What a sad thing it would be if the spirit of another was as easy to replicate as the stamp of a coin."

Is that it? Sebastian had wondered then. Can even humans taste the echo of the soul that made a thing in the dish they eat? But if that were so, what of his own work?

There is a knock at the door. Sebastian's hands, inside their white cotton gloves, holding the handle of a wooden spoon, become suddenly slick with sweat.

"Ah, I have to answer that," Agni says. "Keep the kitchen while I'm gone."

"No, wait!" Sebastian says. Agni turns back to him with confusion. The knock repeats. It seems so resounding that it vibrates itself up his ribcage. He only knows that he needs Agni to stay here, and not to answer the door. If no one answers—

Prince Soma's steps hover near the doorway, and it creaks open. Sebastian can hear voices, muffled and indecipherable but so loud it almost makes him wince. Agni is still in the kitchen doorway, staring at him with a calm question in his eyes.

"Let me answer the door instead," Sebastian says. "Please."

Agni smiles at him softly. "It's all right, Sebastian," he says quietly. He turns and walks away, his figure growing smaller as it fades down the corridor.

No. It is not all right.

There is the crack of a gunshot. Beyond the sound, the whole world is bathed in a ringing quietness.

Sebastian turns off the stove, mechanically. Then he walks toward the sound. There is shouting, screaming, crying, and the sounds of a struggle, all faded and off, as though he is hearing it from the other end of a phone line. When he enters the room Agni is slumped in front of the door behind which he has locked his most precious burden; prince Soma's life. There are knives sticking out of his back, and the usually-enticing smell of blood; but right now all that the smell does is make him feel sick to his stomach. It is curdling and dry. The sour smell of death fills the room.

He pulls Agni from the door, sits down holding his body and notices, with some surprise, that the heart is still beating, like a frightened bird's in the claws of a cat. Agni's eyes open and he stares at him without speaking.

"I'm sorry," Sebastian says, at last. His voice sounds odd and very small.

Agni smiles, but it turns into a grimace of pain. "What's important," he says, "is that my prince is alive."

And what about you? Sebastian thinks, selfishly. What about all the recipes you never taught me? What about the spirit of the chef in the dishes you make?

The khansama's breath grows short, stutters, and finally stops altogether. Sebastian waits for the breath to return, but it does not.

"You were an exemplary butler, my friend," Sebastian says.

.

.

—and he wakes at dawn, surprised to find his face is wet with tears.

.

.

.


End file.
